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years,” he said. “Now y’all got to go. You been in here just long enough for me to tell you I ain’t see nothing.” He started walking toward the door.
    “Okay, sir, we’re going; but did you get a look at any of the shooters, or can you tell me what kind of van it was?”
    “They was Black and so was the van, and that’s all I could see from here. Now y’all got to go,” he said and opened the door. Once we were out in the hall he stuck his head out. “Like I told you outside, officer, I ain’t see nothing,” he said loudly and slammed the door.
    Sanchez and I walked away from apartment 213 in silence, and went down the steps. There were still the three guys from the crowd that I picked out, to talk to. I chose the three of them because, unlike most of the crowd who looked like they had just grabbed something to wear to run out and see the show, these three were dressed like they had been out all night doing business. They looked like dope boyz—pure and simple. Some call it profiling; I call it my job.
    When I got outside, they had the three of them in separate cars. Sanchez and I got in the car on either side, with the first one. “You wanna tell me what happened out here tonight?”
    “No.”
    “Look, we can do this anyway you want; but you are going to tell me what happened.”
    “No I ain’t. I got the right to remain silent,” he said with a smug look on his face like he had the world by the tail.
    “That’s only if you were under arrest, which you’re not. Right now, I have all the rights. And I got the right to kick your fuckin’ ass, and then I’ll arrest you for resisting arrest,” I said.
    “Yeah, but you ain’t gonna do that, ’cause I’ll sue your ass for police brutally.”
    “You were injured while resisting arrest; wasn’t he lieutenant?”
    “That’s how my report will read,” Sanchez said.
    “Or maybe I’ll just shoot you in the back and say you were trying to escape.”
    “You just tryin’ ta’ scare me.”
    “Look, I know you were with them when the shooting started.”
    “Who told you that?”
    “I did,” Sanchez said. “We had you, asshole, under surveillance for months. We know all about Kenyatta Damson and the whole crew of you. You take a good picture.”
    “What I get if I tell you what you wanna know?”
    “I already told you: you get to get out of this car alive and with no broken bones,” I said.
    “All right. I don’t know who them niggas was, but they rolled up on us and just started shooting. Blade was out front; he got cut down ’fore he got his gun out. Kenyatta and Fraz shot back but they were outgunned. Them niggas was bustin’ with AKs or some heavy shit like that.”
    “And the rest of you ran for cover,” Sanchez said and got out of the car.
    “I took—yeah, we just ran,” he said and dropped his head before he admitted that he was involved in the shooting.
    “Thanks,” I said and got out of the car. We ran the same game on the other two and they told us the same story. I had the officers take them in, book them for loitering, and then let them go. At least we would have their prints and mug shots.
    After Sanchez and I left the crime scene, he rode with me while I grabbed something to eat and some coffee, and then we headed back to the precinct. I wanted to get a look at the file he had on Kenyatta Damson and he not only wanted, but needed, to find out how this woman was running an operation like she was, and nobody in his unit knew anything about it. He didn’t say it, but I knew he had to be thinking that someone in his unit might be dirty.
    While Sanchez wandered around the unit chewin’ ass, I dug into her file. Under the circumstances, I wasn’t expecting to find much. When Sanchez got done with his tirade, he came back in his office, sat down in front of me, and took a deep breath. “Was it good for you?”
    “It was better for me than it was for them,” Sanchez said and wiped his forehead with his handkerchief.